


Searching Far, Searching Wide

by TerraCottaNightmare



Series: Like No One Ever Was [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: And so would Stiles, BAMF Stiles, Bad Jokes, Because I love him and I can, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, For once there's a plot, Gen, He must get it from his mom, How Do I Tag, I'm not good at writing action can you tell?, Magic Stiles Stilinski, Pack Mom Stiles Stilinski, Stephen King References, Stiles gets beat up, because I say so, blood mention, chris is a good boy, im sorry, shit gets real
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 07:06:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19718674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerraCottaNightmare/pseuds/TerraCottaNightmare
Summary: It's all fun and games until someone gets hurt.





	Searching Far, Searching Wide

**Author's Note:**

> *deep breath* I'M SO SORRY! Literally like a minute after I finished writing this chapter, my wifi went down. And then it stayed down. It's still down as I speak. In the time that my wifi was down my brother had time to find a place, move out, and set up his wifi, which I'm currently stealing to post this!  
> Thank all of you so much for your kudos and/or reviews, honestly even just seeing people have read it makes my heart explode and my face hurt from smiling.   
> Okay, so this is where the promised plot is beginning to develop. Hope you enjoy this slight change of pace!

It starts with a phone call.

Stiles is distracted as he answers, holding the phone with his shoulder as he scrolls through the latest in a long line of websites, scrounging for more information on the kanima. His notebook is depressingly empty, and if he stumbles across one more typo-laden Dragon Ball fanfiction he might implode.

“Henderson’s morgue, you stab ‘em, we slab ‘em, this is Eight Ball speaking. How can I help you?”

“Stiles.”

He huffs. “I still got nothin’ on the kanima, it’s like looking for an iPhone in pre-revolutionary France, I swear--”

“Stiles.”

Stiles pauses, brow furrowing. That’s probably the most concerned he’d ever heard Derek sound, including the pool incident and the rave incident.

“What’s wrong?”

A car door slams over the line, and Derek starts the car before answering.

“Erica and Boyd.”

Stiles fidgets. Isaac seems to magically appear in his doorway, staring at the phone and leaning against the doorframe.

“Tell me they decided to run home from Boyd’s and just forgot to tell me so I can growl at them.”

Stiles feels a pulse of warmth at the word home, though it’s quickly swallowed by worry. He stands, weaving around piles of dirty clothes and research materials towards his keys after a worried headshake from Isaac-- they aren’t here, nor are they nearby.

One thing the two had insisted on was doing laundry themselves, in one of their own homes. Isaac and Derek went to a laundromat downtown, citing Stiles’ crappy dryer as a reason, but the thing about werewolves is that they seem to fundamentally lack any sort of subtlety in any form. The fact that the dryer was suddenly a problem after they witnessed him doing just about everything from the dishes to vacuuming to mowing the lawn with absolutely no help (and that it soon became impossible for him to do chores without a werewolfy helper by his side) was both exasperating and a little sweet.

“They haven’t been here in almost four hours.”

He struggles into his jacket, brushing a reassuring hand through a whimpering Isaac’s curls on his way to pull on his shoes.

“ I can’t pick up a scent at either of their houses. Neither of them have been there in almost a week.”

Isaac follows scarcely a step behind him on the way to the front door, eyes wide with anxiety but steely with resolve. Stiles pauses on the front step.

“I’m gonna go from Boyd’s house towards the school. Isaac, hold down the fort for now in case they were just sidtrcked, we’ll call you if we find anything. Stiles, go from the school towards Erica’s. If you find anything, call me, but DO NOT get out of your car.”

Derek stays on the line a moment longer, hesitating, before hanging up. Stiles shoots Isaac a smile that probably looks as worried as he feels, before half tripping down the stairs in his haste to get to the jeep. The sooner they find their packmates, the better.

*************

He’s barely a mile from Erica’s, diving along a secluded back road, when he finds the laundry bags-- two enormous floral monstrosities that his mom had gotten as a wedding present and promptly relegated to the basement. They’re large enough to comfortably hold a small child, one of them spilling a miniskirt and what looks like his favorite flannel batman pajama pants out into the dirt. The shameless theft is almost enough to make him laugh.

There’s something embedded in one of the bags, and he’s dialing Derek as he unbuckles, shifting into the passenger seat and leaning slightly out the window to get a better look.

It’s a bolt from a crossbow. He doesn’t finish dialling in time.

*************

Stiles spits out blood and hopes that he doesn’t lose a tooth.

He’ll admit that taunting the crazy sociopathic kidnapper wasn’t one of his best ideas, and he’s paying for it in blood. The geriatric is surprisingly strong, despite his frail appearance, and is perhaps not-so-surprisingly good at making him hurt. A lot.

Being above-average in terms of both clumsiness and recklessness, he’s no stranger to the sensation of a bone breaking or a bruise forming. Being above-average in terms of ability to annoy just about everybody, it’s not the first time he’s had the shit kicked out of him, by any means, but this is an above-average beating and it’s a lot even for him.

A blow to the face sets one of his ears ringing, and he grunts. He refuses to do more than that, to scream or cry out. Another blow to the ribs has him biting on his tongue, because yep, that’s a broken rib all right, and two more kicks breaks another. He curls up tighter and tries to breathe shallowly.

He’s pretty sure Erica is crying, though it’s hard to tell from across the room and through the duct tape. Boyd might be too, though that might be from the car battery pumping electricity through their systems.

The beating stops, and he refuses to move as Gerard chuckles above him. “You’ll make a nice little message for those mutts, Stiles.” He pats his head in a mockery of comfort. “Try not to pass out, will you? I intend to make you scream before the night is through.”

The stairs creak, a door closes and latches, and Stiles allows his muscles to relax minutely with a whimper.

Erica is definitely crying, mascara tracks visible even with his slightly blurry vision. He tries for a smile before spitting out more blood. It’s probably not as reassuring as he wants it to be. 

He takes a quick inventory of his injuries--two definitely broken ribs, one that might be broken or just bruised, bloody nose, some kind of cut in his mouth (hopefully), a cut near his temple that seems to be bleeding down his chin, a finger that’s at least dislocated, not to mention that pretty much his entire torso seems to be a bruise. Luckily nothing seems to be punctured, and the discomfort in his ribs is already starting to die down slightly as adrenaline numbs the worst of the pain. Stiles spits more blood and, with extreme difficulty, drags himself into a sitting position. The world tilts, and he spends several minutes breathing short and slow before he can make the black spots in his vision go away. 

There’s no way he’ll be able to stand, let alone walk, and he can feel twin bursts of concern and pain in equal measures from the pack bonds in his chest. One of the other ones, the soft and sharp strand of wonderful contradictions that he associates with Isaac, is a tense ball of worry, fear and crushing sadness, but it’s Derek’s that takes his breath away again. Their alpha’s bond is strained and almost completely closed off for the first time since it formed, full of an eerie numbness that radiates out and seems almost resigned.

It’s that that drives Stiles to reach deeper, towards the amber light at his core that reminds him of the good days with his mom. He can’t stand, but if Deaton ever has to be right about anything, then it had better be his magic.

He prods it the way he does his packbonds, and after a few frustrating minutes of jumping at any noise from above it unfurls lazily, as if it’s a cat just woken from a nap. His fingers start glowing, the unnaturally bent digit making him wince. He focuses as best he can, reaching out towards his packmates.

It takes quite a few shaky tries, but finally, he manages to project the power outwards. Erica makes a stunned noise as his magic surrounds her. A surge of protectiveness rises up in him as his magic reports traces of wolfsbane in her system, barely healed puncture wounds dotting her shoulders and back. The energy follows his wordless instruction and surrounds her in a cloak of warmth, catching her and lowering her to the ground as her bonds disintegrate. She crawls over to him and engulfs him in a hug as soon as she’s able, shaking him and nearly causing him to drop Boyd. The normally stoic beta has relief written all over his face, and he envelops both of them in a hug that only releases when Stiles gasps in pain.

“We have to go. Who knows how long he’ll actually be gone for?”

The betas share a look and nod, Erica circling around to his left whilst Boyd scoots slightly to the right. They heft him between them, and on shaky legs they stagger best they can up the stairs. It takes him almost twenty tries to undo the lock, and another three to dispel the mountain ash surrounding the door. The house is silent but for the hum of the appliances as they shuffle through shockingly normal-looking halls, sneaking their way towards the exit. 

It says something about how shaken the wolves are that they don’t hear the heartbeat until it’s almost on top of them, Erica taking Stiles’ full weight whilst Boyd moves in front of them with a growl. Their stances are sloppy with exhaustion but determined, and Stiles feels a surge of warm gratitude and affection swell his chest.

Chris Argent comes around the corner with a gun raised to shoot, and Stiles doesn’t have time to think. A shield erects itself around them and Chris’ gun turns to dust in his hands.

The older hunter stares at the small pile of ash that was his gun with wide eyes before turning his attention to the teens. He squints at them through the thick amber shield.

“Is that… Stiles?!”

He smiles sheepishly, waving with his good hand. They’re still glowing, he knows, and he’s pretty sure that his teeth are covered in blood, but then he’s also fairly sure that shock is starting to set in, so he clearly has bigger problems to deal with.

“What on Earth happened to you? And why are you in my house?!”

“Ask your dad and daughter what we’re doing here.” Erica’s eyes go yellow, and he sends a calming ripple down her pack bond. He blinks.

“Wait, Allison did this to you?!” He straightens as best he can, the spark inside of him practically roiling with distress and anger. The shield glows intensely before starting to dissipate, the man in front of them no longer the biggest threat to his packmates.

Erica nods, and Chris winces. “I’m sorry, I should’ve-- Victoria’s death, it’s been hard on us both, and I should’ve known Gerard would use it to-- to twist her up like he did Kate.”

Stiles is frowning, cleary thinking a mile a minute. “Do you agree with your father’s actions as of late?”

The other three look at him confused. “I-- what?”

“Kidnapping and torturing three of your daughter’s classmates. Having your daughter shoot said classmates with a freaking crossbow. Werewolf or not, they’re innocent of any crimes except maybe trespassing and some minor vandalism. Do you agree with your father’s actions?”

Chris is already shaking his head. “No. I-- no. To torture children--”

The wolves can practically feel the visceral disgust rolling off him in waves at the thought. His heartbeat is rock solid.

“Great! Then would you mind giving me a ride to Scott’s place? His mom’s a nurse and one of my ribs could puncture my lung or something literally any minute now”.

Chris stares at him incredulously, but nods. The wolves glare. Stiles goes to clap his hands, Erica luckily stopping him before he can further mess up his finger.

“Great! I call shotgun!”

*************

Melissa isn’t home when they get there, nor is Scott, but Stiles gets a call from the latter telling him to bring Lydia to the lacrosse field as fast as he can manage. Stiles can’t get a word in edgewise before he hangs up.

“Is this what people feel like when I talk over them all the time?” Nonetheless, he points an exasperated Chris in the direction of the Martin’s place.

For once, Lydia seems horrified by Stiles’ presence for a reason other than his existence and personality. She stares at him wide eyed, gazing incredulously at Erica and seemingly at a loss for words whilst the bloody-looking Stiles rambles about werewolves.

“Look Lyds, I’d love to ease you into all of this supernatural bullshit but something’s up with Jackson and I’ve got maybe ten minutes before I pass out. Not to mention that Chris is probably pretty fed up with carting us around. I can explain more on the way but Scott’s alone in a tense situation and we need to get going before we have another incident like the one with the hamster.”

That gets her moving, and Chris, Boyd, and Erica stare at him in mild horror as he recounts the story for them. It involves a lot of Scott in tense situations, and if Chris drives a little faster with every word from the chatty teen’s mouth, then that’s nobody’s business, really.

*************

Stiles’ words are becoming more and more slurred by the time they pull up to the warehouse, Chris parking at the bottom of the steps with several nervous glances towards the backseat. Stiles is spouting off seemingly random facts, mostly to do with baking. His eyes are unfocused and bleary, and Erica has to prick him with her claws to keep him conscious. They unanimously decide to leave her with him in the car, the rest of them trudging out into the open with tension in every step.

Inside is a clusterfuck, put lightly. The kanima-- Jackson?-- is collapsed on the floor, its claws bloody. Gerard stands to its left, slightly in front of the beast. Chris shudders. The smile on his father’s face is demented, but familiar, and he wonders how he never saw the old man for what he was.

His little girl stands to his right, crossbow raised and eyes shining with tears and mania, and he feels like someone’s sucked the air from his lungs.

Boyd growls, eyes locked on the three as he edges over to his alpha’s side. Derek looks rough. His shirt is bloody, and even Chris can see that his eyes are dangerously blank. It’s the kind of emptiness he’s seen in old veterans, the ones who never quite reacclimated to being back, being civilians. It’s worrying to see on someone so young.

His blood curdles as he listens to his father’s monologue, standing unnoticed in the doorway. Lydia is frozen behind him, eyes flickering between Jackson’s scaly form and one of the wolves-- is that Peter?!

Faintly, he wonders when hunting became the most normal aspect of his life.

*************

Stiles isn’t entirely sure if he’s awake or not. Is that Erica? Good, she got away from Gerard. Ow, stop with the claws. He squirms for a second before he remembers, oh yeah, he’s pretty busted up and that hurts. A lot. His legs are cramped and he thinks he’s in a car? Were they going to get someone? Or did they do that? Something about Scott….

The whimpering is coming from Erica and he lifts a hand to pat her arm awkwardly. She sends calm reassurance down their bond, but she can’t hide how worried she is, for him and for Boyd and Derek and Isaac. His hand tightens on her wrist in an attempt to make the suffocating anxiety. His vision is fuzzy, but he knows she’s trying to smile, and he knows she fails.

Derek’s pack bond draws tight with panic, an icy feeling that’s all too familiar. It’s the kind of desperate panic that you feel when there’s nothing left to do but scream and cry and beg with the universe for something, anything, a break. Anything. And Stiles-- something in Stiles snaps.

Something inside him unfurls. Cold air hits his suddenly-uncramped legs, still in his comfy clothes from his reaserch extravaganza. Dimly, he can feel Erica trying to pull him back, hear her growing steadily more frantic as he stands and starts up the steps. Her hands and even claws seem unable to catch his clothes, to wrap around his arms, to stop his progress moving forward. He channels a stream of calm down the bonds in his chest, feeling them pulse in surprise and mild horror as the door opens without him touching it.

A shield ripples into existence in front of him, just in time to stop the bullet from meeting its target. Another two meet a similar fate before a wave of his hand turns the gun to dust.

“Now what’s all this?” His smile is a sharp thing, designed to cut those who’d hurt the people he cares about. The shield tinges everything around him with a warm caramel tone that reminds him of his mother, but even that isn’t enough to hide the way Derek’s face has gone a little gray. He strokes the bond between them like a startled cat and feels him start to relax, just a bit. Gerard fixes him with that same demented grin from the basement, and he puts up with his villainous monologue for about ten seconds before rolling his eyes.

“Isaac, can you fill me in? If I have to hear one more word from Evil Dumbledore here I’m gonna puke.”

Isaac’s laugh sounds more like a whimper than usual, but it’s better than nothing. “He wants Derek to bite him so that he won’t die from cancer, or else Jac-- the kanima will evolve and kill us all.”

Stiles shoots him a grin that he hopes is reassuring. It turns icy and mocking as he turns back towards the aged hunter and an increasingly conflicted-looking Allison.

“See? How hard was that? He spelled out in a sentence what probably took you an entire monologue, and he managed not to choke on all that hypocrisy you’re spewing.”

Gerard’s eyes flash, but Stiles really desn’t feel like sitting through a monologue. A wave of his hand and a flicker of belief is all it takes for the man to freeze where he stands, locked in stasis until they can decide what to do with the bastard.

Stiles sways slightly on his feet but holds firm, turning to the next biggest threat in the room. He certainly looks much less like a murderous lunatic-- the scars are gone, along with the crazy sparkle in his eye, though the smirk is the same. He suspects that looks certainly aren’t everything when it comes to Peter, however.

“You’re not going to go around stabbing people with a scalpel, are you? It’s been a long enough night without you going all Gage Creed on anyone.”

Peter’s smirk widens, but he thinks he might actually be amused. “Please, Stiles, if I wanted I could do much more damage than a demented toddler and you know it. No, I’m not going to harm any of you.”

“Alright”, Stiles smiles and there’s blood on his teeth again, he’s sure of it, can taste it, “Now that we’ve thoroughly traumatized at least three people and have a lovely addition for Aunty Em’s Garden Gnome Emporium, who wants to drive me to the hospital? Cuz I’m gonna pass out any second now.”

Isaac barely has time to catch him as he loses consciousness.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope that was worth waiting like a year! Haha... ha. Sorry. I promise the next installment will be up in a more timely fashion, if I have to steal my brother's wifi forever to make it happen! >:D


End file.
